Surpassing The Lethe
by DelicateScholar
Summary: Draco wakes up with no memory of the past ten years. His dreams are filled with memories and his memories are filled with one Hermione Granger. He's afraid what that means, because the very witch he can't stop thinking about is the witch he was in Azkaban for murdering.
1. Chapter 1

Draco Malfoy had lost ten years of his life.

His fingers trembled as he lightly touched the rain-splotched _The Daily Prophet_. Two people he didn't recognize were featured on the front page, shaking hands and silently chattering to each other. Nothing in the articles made sense.

 _"Professor Griselda Marchbanks, CDMG, APMO, fdBB, was moved to Isle of Wight for her burial service. She served over one hundred and ten years on the Wizengamot..."_

 _"Magical Creature Amendment Under Inspection. Dirk Cresswell, new Head of Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures, refutes Gawain Robard's allegations that the proposed bill is not only irresponsible, but hazardous to the health of...'"_

 _"The highly vaunted Auror Weasley speaks about the latest developments in Magical Law Enforcement, including breakthrough discoveries about Dementors, the former guards of Azkaban. "Even though they will never retain their former usefulness," Weasley explains, "we hope to..."_

Draco bit out a curse, throwing the newspaper to the ground.

"That miserable, mush-brained sod is a 'highly vaunted' Auror? I bet he wanked just reading that." The paper laid where he threw it, the two unfamiliar people on the front eyeing him dubiously and inching away. He was tempted to go kick it for good measure, but what good would that do?

He looked around the room again. There was nothing remarkable; only white walls and a flat mattress in the corner.

So this was Azkaban.

He had wondered if he would ever see the inside of it after his father was arrested. Dreams of Dementors gliding up to his bed had haunted him for months.

All four walls were an unassuming white, holding nothing to break the monotony. There wasn't a crack, or a stain, or even a miserable, little cobweb hanging in the corner to ease his need for something _different_.

The empty shell of a room glared even when he closed his eyes.

He had tried banging on the walls, shouting until his voice was hoarse and knuckles swollen. He hadn't seen anyone since waking up, alone and wearing a thin green robe that was wrinkled and damp on one side. His nose crinkled at the scratchy quality of the material.

The last coherent memory he had was standing beneath a large tree. Professor Snape had been handing him something wrapped in several dead leaves. He hadn't wanted to take it. Professor Snape's dour face had twisted in an impatient snarl, saying words - cruel words - when something had bludgeoned him from behind.

That was mere weeks after his escape from Hogwarts. His insides twisted sharply at the thought, regret and nausea mingling together to form a tumultuous pit in his stomach. Turning his face away from the wall, he contemplated the paper again.

The date scrawled elegantly across the top of the _Daily Prophet_ mocked him.

 _November 3, 2007._

It was ridiculous to think that his last memory was not only of being a schoolboy fugitive, but also a decade out of date.

What little he knew of Dementors could not explain this phenomenon. They may steal happiness and devour souls, but he had never read that a person suffered from memory loss.

But they did have that tendency to cause insanity.

Because where else would he be but Azkaban?

Though the news had implied the Dementors were not the recent Azkaban guards, and had not been for a while. No, there had to be another explanation.

Preferably that the _Daily Prophet_ made a grievous error on the date of their latest edition.

He sagged against the wall, a hand drooping over his propped knee. He carefully inspected his hands, with their untended skin, uneven nails, and unfamiliar scars. Malfoys, he recited with a moue of distaste, did not appear less than their best.

 _We are immaculate and superior wizards,_ the voice of his father sneered, w _ith one of the few unblemished bloodlines left in Europe, if not farther still._

A harsh ringing sound broke his reverie, reminding him of the cauldron sized bell that clanged from the Wizard's clock that had been planted in the foyer of the Manor for as long as he could remember.

He rubbed one ear, shuddering more at the similarity than at the volume.

"Up and at 'em, Malfoy." A tall figure stood in a doorway that hadn't been there a moment ago.

Or had it been?

Was he already deteriorating down the slippery slope of madness that his father had claimed failure would earn him?

"Come on Malfoy." It was a familiar voice.

He climbed to his feet, wincing at the stiff pain in his lower back and legs. How long had he been sitting there, watching the wall?

The dark skin, widely flared nostrils, and slight frown were all familiar. He could have been Dean Thomas's father, but if he recalled correctly, and he always did, the black Gryffindor was a Mudblood.

The guard kept his wand pointed at his throat, taking a practiced step back.

Draco followed, he didn't have much of a choice.

They walked for what seemed like miles. Question after question crowded in his mind. How did the trial go? What had the convinction been and who still visited him?

He was the son of an exposed Death Eater, betrayer of Hogwarts' most beloved Headmaster, oh, and a Slytherin.

Professor Snape had only spokenbriefly, memorably, on the harsh reality of becoming a Death Eater. Snape being Snape, the talk was punctuated with expressions of disgust at Draco's stupidity, as well as a few interesting, but impossible allegations about his ancestry.

But Draco hadn't listened, he'd gone headfirst down the road of taking the mark and sneaking a bevy of Death Eaters into the school.

Was he passing by an invisible door that held his father? He had a horrifying image of his father wrapped in the thin robes; domineering face slack, dried spittle crusting his chin, and tangled white hair like the Longbottoms'.

Draco shuddered.

Older Dean Thomas jerked his wand toward a door. Draco gave him a quick smirk as he stepped through.

The color blinded him for a full minute.

Three wizards sat in a row before a long table, the walls a demure blue and bronze behind them. Too much color.

"Draco Malfoy, please have a seat." The older witch gave him a measured look, unreadable. The man to her left was much older, sporting an eyepatch and a scar that nearly bissected his cheek.

The third was Ginny Weasley.

Oh, she wasn't the snub nosed, freckle-faced Gryffindor that, as he recalled, dated the older boys. Her lined face was downcast, reading the paperwork in front of her morosely.

His stomach dropped as he gazed at her.

Then he demanded, "Where am I? Why am I being held here?" The cheap robe made a dry, rustling sound as he crossed his arms.

The man spoke in a dry, unaffected voice. "You're at the Parkhurst Medical Penitentiary. You were in a cell in Azkaban when you began to display symptoms of an advanced memory charm. Unconscious, convulsions, followed by tremors and chills.

Draco said nothing. What he wanted to do was burst into movement: scream, yell, throw the chair at them just so they understood that this made no sense to him. If somebody had Obliviated him, a reality of Dark Magic, it didn't cause any of that.

Though a botched memory charm actually damaged parts of the brain, which was also less than preferable.

It was just too much to conceive that ten years were wiped away in the two seconds it took to cast an incantation.

"So you stuck me in another cell. Of course, I wouldn't expect an organization that employs Weasleys to actually be efficient." He sneered.

The elderly witch looked unimpressed. "The room you are in is specifically designed for complete monitoring of dangerous witches and wizards with serious medical conditions. Despite what you may have heard in the past about conditions of Azkaban, we do not abuse our inmates. Your condition was stable, the diagnostic spells were inconclusive, and you are considered a dangerous wizard, Mr. Malfoy."

Despite the queer little thrill that gave him, he only scowled more. "What exactly am I being accused of? For all I know, some overzealous Auror overstepped his bounds and tried to cover his tracks. And this 'story' is just a fabrication to cover that up." He leaned forward in his chair, hissing out, "where is my father? I want evidence, witnesses, and not Potter's little girlfriend. I want—"

"Mr. Malfoy!" the white-haired witch snapped icily, lip curled in disdain. "I must ask that you save your outbursts for someone it will matter to."

Draco leaned back in his chair. Perhaps it was just his mind playing tricks on him, but from the precise snap of her words to the faint narrowing of her pale eyes, as well as the condescension, she reminded him so much of his father that he had to take a closer look. He filed that thought away for later.

"I don't know why I'm here," he said succinctly. "And I want some answers." He glared at her challengingly.

His heart was pounding hard enough to drown out all the other mundane sounds.

What he really wanted was to wake up surrounded by rich emerald curtains with velvety ropes looped on each pillar before any of this happened.

Finally, the crafty, cool-eyed witch said, "Your charges have already been brought before the Wizengamot. We found you guilty of conspiracy against the Ministry of Magic as well as possession of more than one documented item of Dark Magic." Her voice was flat. "As well as accessory to murder."

"Who? Who did I 'murder'?" he demanded.

The older witch's lips pressed together. "Hermione Granger."

The words died on his lips. For once in his life, he was speechless.

If he couldn't kill a helpless Dumbledore, then how could they imagine he could another?

What a ridiculous idea, he thought numbly.

Professor Snape's words floated back to him. Days after Dumbledore died, he had found Draco huddled in a miserable heap by the roaring fireplace one chilly morning, unable to get warm no matter how long he sat there.

 _"You see, Mr. Malfoy, this is not an afternoon diversion that you can amaze and awe your friends with. When you took the title of Death Eater, your life became reliant on your adherence to the Dark Lord's every wish._

 _Do you suppose that we call him the Dark Lord on a whim? At least your predictable and foreseeable reaction earlier this week had one desired effect: the Dark Mark has not been seared fully into your flesh. Despite what desperate Death Eaters might claim with the thought of a Dementor's kiss on their mind, it is impossible to force the Dark Mark on an unwilling victim. To fully bind it, you have to take the life of another._

 _The more you flaunt that twisted fealty of loyalty on your arm, the higher the likelihood of someone dying is. Imagine your fellow Slytherins, condemned to a life of misery, trying to co-exist between a world that would throw them in Azkaban and a powerful, mad creature that would use them until they die. Think of their meaningless, squandered half-life, such as I have had for over fifteen years. People are dying and more will die, people you know and attend school with._

 _Though you may consider yourself superior, Mr. Malfoy, their face will haunt you long after their death."_

He could see her eleven-year-old face in that moment; the small, snooty face surrounded by a mass of unruly curls. He could recall unfavorably comparing her likeness to a giant capybara. How Pansy had howled and then cast venomous little smirks toward the Gryffindor table.

"I don't remember any of this. How can you hold me in a cell for a crime I don't remember committing?"

"Lack of memory does not constitute rehabilitation, Mr. Malfoy." The witch placed one of her wrinkled, swollen hands over the other. "Now that you are conscious, several mediwizards from St. André-Jacomet's will be attending to you. We want to discern for ourselves the extent of damage, if any. Now, can you please tell us your last memory?"

As she spoke, the door opened again. Three people stepped inside, wearing modified versions of the St. Mungo's robes. These had plum lining down the sides of their eggshell-blue robes, a small badge emblazoned on the chest, and a neutral stare as they approached him, wands withdrawn.

Draco instinctively drew back, eyeing the group with suspicion. "My last memory is fleeing from Professor's ramshackle little hut in the middle of nowhere," he bit out. "The last thing I remember is him shoving me out of the way while your Aurors attacked us from behind."

The two elder adults glanced at each other, but said nothing.

"I spent weeks trying to escape from him. The moment I break free I get ambushed by your bungling, inept excuses for wizards you call Aurors."

This strange adult version of Ginny Weasley lifted her head quickly, outraged.

Draco warmed to the topic, one hand absently brushing aside a mediwizard's wand tip from his face. "I can only imagine how quick you were all to accuse me of wrongdoing just because I'm a Slytherin and a Malfoy. I never wanted to 'follow in my Father's footsteps,' I was under a great deal of pressure from You-Know-Who to join his ranks. I resisted, naturally, and Professor Snape had spent all school year trying to persuade me. When that didn't work-"

Ginny jumped to her feet, pointed hat fluttering down to the table.

It was similar the look on her face moments before she put a Bat-Bogey hex on him fifth year, fury and disgust. "Why, of all the despicable, rotten, lousy lies to ever spew out of your mouth! Do you expect us to believe that you didn't buckle under the pressure the moment Voldemort threatened your oh-so-fine skin? Better wizards than you, Malfoy, gave into his demands!"

"Auror Weasley, please have a seat," the wizard said mildly, unaffected by the outburst.

His lip curled back in a triumphant smirk. "Auror Weasley, is it? Highly vaunted? Tell me, did your brother ever escape the mediocrity of being Potter's sidekick, or has he been overshadowed by his little sister as well?"

Ginny flushed a mottled red, her fists clenching.

He didn't bother to hide his satisfaction. After spending the past several hours feeling helpless and ready to scream, it felt good to cause someone else the same frustration.

"Auror Weasley, please have a seat," the witch said more firmly, then fixed her gaze on him. "If you are finished goading one of your very few supporters, please let me speak." After a moment of silence while Ginny regained her composure, she nodded. "Once the results indicate that you are indeed impaired from a well-executed memory charm, you will be released for a limited time."

"I thought memory loss didn't mean I was rehabilitated," Draco said rather smugly, hiding the small thrill of hope that went through him.

"No, it does not, and indeed you are not. However, it is the fervent stipulation of the world's most accomplished wizards and witches in the field that dealing with familiar surroundings will prove more beneficial than simply removing the charm."

"Aren't you going to remove the charm?" he bit out impatiently. How could they expect him to go to the outside world with no memory of the past ten years?

"It has already been tried."

"What about these 'most accomplished wizards and witches'?" His voice was sharp with disdain. "Has anything been done except let these half-wits poke their wands around my head?" He shoved aside the wand tip of one of the male mediwizards as it brushed his ear.

"Unfortunately, one of the foremost witches in our branch of has recently passed away," the older witch said coolly, pressing her fingers together. "Obviously, we will not be releasing you without accompaniment. One Auror and one trained mediwizard will be assigned to you at all times. They are there for your protection as well as others'."

She rose to her feet, followed by the red-eyed, ashen-faced Weasley and the ancient wizard.

"Wait!" He felt a surge of panic, shoving an errant wand tip away again. "I still have questions! You can't just leave without telling me what I've missed! You can't do this!"

"I'm sorry, Mr. Malfoy, but it is out of my hands. Even the questions we have answered were too much." They swept out.

Good, he was seconds away from pleading with them to come back. Malfoys never begged.

Instead, he clenched his fists, the temptation mounting to knock his fist into one of the mediwizards' face as they filed out as well.

Of course, Malfoys did not employ fisticuffs either.

His father had not condoned physical violence from one wizard to another; it was such a lowbrow Muggle resolution. Like a pig pushing its snout in the mud, rooting for a solution to a problem that could be handled with finesse and elegance.

A moment later, the door opened to reveal Dean Thomas, who hadn't aged well in his opinion. He kept his wand trained on Draco.

He covered his rising dismay by noting the loose threads hanging down from Dean's sleeves, the broad forehead that gave him a prematurely balding look, and the old, scuffed shoes that flashed beneath the hem of his robes.

Dean, however, seemed to have no more interest in him other than the occasional cursory glance over his shoulder as they walked.

Draco hated him, knowing the other boy must be so smug in his false superiority, leading around a captive pureblood. Dean must be remembering every slight Draco had dealt him and all his Housemates. How the tall boy must be gloating, he thought furiously.

"How does it feel to see your old girlfriend, Dean? I've always wondered, did she start snogging Potter before or after she dumped you?"

No response.

After a mind-numbing distance, Dean turned to him with wand withdrawn and arms crossed.

"You know, I never liked you when we went to school. I thought you were smug and arrogant, and I never started liking you after we graduated." He paused a moment, and used his wand to tap the side of the wall. "But to be honest, Draco, I stopped hating you a long time ago. I grew up," he said simply.

Draco saw the glint of pity in the other wizard's eyes as he stepped in the white room.

The next several hours were spent in blissful rage.

By the end of it, Draco was exhausted and the _Daily Prophet_ in thousands of tiny pieces littering the floor.

* * *

AN:

This is a previously posted story that is being edited and revised. Eventually will also be on Ao3.


	2. Chapter 2

There was little else to do but wait.

Much to his relief, the plain room altered to fit basic needs. Occasionally a doorway slid into place that led to a bathroom, and sometimes a table and a wide armchair popped up with food and drink.

The meals were deplorable. Lean servings of steamed vegetables, potatoes, and a lump of gray meat with a cold dinner roll soaking up the juices came every dinner. The mug always contained pumpkin juice or tea.

His stomach knotted and protested afterward, but he was so hungry that it wouldn't have mattered if they had laid out gruel and moldy cheese.

He had on yet another pea-green robe. A clean one appeared every time he woke up or made use of the randomly appearing tub. It irritated his skin and left small pink lines where it rubbed most.

After one refusal to eat, which he deeply regretted, he had been the picture of compliance.

He ate when food appeared, showered and shaved when the bathroom appeared, and slept in what he could only guess were decent intervals.

Draco waited patiently until that plain door appeared again.

A tiny brunette wearing the St. André-Jacomet's Healer robes came in, followed by a tall figure in crimson Auror robes. Draco crossed his hands over his stomach, surveying them with a bored air.

The little mediwitch had mousy hair twisted in a bun and an expression of thinly veiled fear. Her tiny hands incessantly smoothed over her pin-straight robes.

His lip curled slightly.

The Auror was as different from her as night from day.

He was a large, beefy man with hands the size of dinner plates, bald head nearly reaching the top of the doorway.

A smooth, flat badge glittered on his chest; Draco had them enough to immediately know what was on it. Two wands crossed over one upright feather with a U shaped ribbon bordering the outer edges of the wands.

The man had two long scars over one eye and one that split his bottom lip. The outer scar was puckered and the skin around his cheek was thick and warped. The grotesque mingling of torn flesh and a burn scar was repulsive.

"Draco Malfoy, my name is Kingsley Shacklebolt. The Healer assigned to you is Danielle Holcomb." The behemoth moved toward him quietly, holding out his hand. Draco reluctantly stuck out his hand, watching the thick fingers swallow his during the brief handshake. He resisted the urge to wipe his hand off on his robe; the man's skin felt dry and scaly, much like a house elf.

Shacklebolt surveyed him briefly. "Come with me." He turned to the door, engulfing the empty space in the doorway. Danielle followed quickly behind him after giving him a nervous glance. Not a common name, Holcomb. It sounded like spitting up phlegm.

The corridor was as uninteresting as the last time, except the walk was much shorter.

The Auror stopped at another unremarkable door and motioned for him to go first, moving his mountainous bulk aside so Draco could pass.

There were three seats by the wall and a rickety table.

"Holcomb, hand the wand to him." Shacklebolt instructed.

The timid Healer sidled up to him and held out a wand.

He sighed and placed his hand over it, frowning when she wouldn't let go. He was completely unprepared for her to jab her wand into his temple.

"Ow!" See, this is what he had been afraid they'd do, clumsy idiots.

She looked immediately apologetic. "Sorry, monsieur." She let go of the wand.

Not just any wand, but a twelve-inch wand made from vine wood and a core of a dragon heartstring; the same that had once belonged to his grandfather. Draco eagerly held it up, all thoughts of being a prisoner flying out of his mind.

His fingers stroked the polished wood, thumb brushing against a small scratch near the tip that Abraxas Malfoy had made as a boy.

He was so busy handling his wand with rapture that he didn't notice right away the large Auror looking at him.

Shacklebolt looked uneasy.

Draco gripped the wand tighter, sure that they would snatch it away from him.

"What?" he bit out, willing the man to stop looking at him like that. As if he was to be pitied.

"It's not yours," Shacklebolt said quietly.

"Of course it's mine," he snarled, clutching it close to his chest. "This was my grandfather's wand. Abraxas Malfoy, I'm sure you've heard? He promised it to me when I was no taller than his knee, so don't tell me that it's not my wand."

The Auror was shaking his head slowly, still watching Draco with that damned pitying expression. "It's a replica; an indistinct wand that you responded to during the core diagnostic before."

Draco shook his head, fingers still curled loosely around the wand. "It's his. My grandfather's. There's a notch I've seen my whole life."

Something sharp and painful crossed the Auror's wide face. "The wand was Transfigured to a form you'd feel most comfortable with."

The Healer cringed, taking another step back with gaze averted.

Shacklebolt sighed. "They snapped your wand after the trial."

Draco felt the air squeeze out of his body, making a loud rushing noise as it went. His wand? Snapped in half?

A pair of small hands grasp his elbow and lead him to a chair. The edge bit painfully into his thigh as he sagged on the seat, but he didn't care.

Vague memories flitted across his mind; a tall man with proud features and icy cold blue eyes; his mother's face with a warm smile he strived to make a single feather float inches from the tip of his wand.

His stomach pitched alarmingly and he gagged. A hand forced him down until his chest was nearly pressed against his knees and he couldn't resist. He heaved and retched, a thin stream of partially digested food spilling out.

The mixture of bile and orange coating his throat caused him to gag again, until there was nothing left but air and sore muscles.

Draco remained slumped against his knees, not wanting to straighten and look at the two witnesses to his humiliating display.

They were probably thinking what a pansy he was being, and laughing at how weak and ridiculous the Malfoy heir had become. Pansy, pansy. What a stupid name for a pureblood.

He laughed, and the hysterical sound of it shamed him.

He realized he was still holding on to the hated thing, the false wand, and threw it away from him furiously.

Shacklebolt walked toward it, stooping miles down to pick it up, and returned to him.

The man held the wand out in his thick fingers. "It does have spell restrictions on it, but also plenty of other necessary spell-casting capabilities."

Draco looked at the wand for a long time. Finally, he reached out and took it. With thoughtful deliberation, he turned his head and spit the bile from his mouth.

The first order of business was to buy something he could wear. Shacklebolt gave him his thick cloak to cover his prisoner robes and the blustery day they had to fly in. He had to ride a child's side-along broom out of Parkhurst to the other facility, a minor branch of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement.

He waited for a quarter of an hour in a small room with a narrow table and a mug of coffee. He sipped the dark brew with some distaste, far more thirsty than finicky.

He had thought a while about this. If they intended to 'release' him under supervision, he might be able to get more answers about his past. Shacklebolt seemed like a tough nut to crack though. That mediwitch, she should prove easier to break.

When Shacklebolt reappeared, Draco crossed his arms. "I hope you're not thinking of taking me to Madame Malkin's. If I'm going to be hidden, it'd be ridiculous to go to one of the most highly populated areas this side of London and Oxford."

Shacklebolt raised an eyebrow. "I have no intention of taking you to a highly populated area your first day out."

Draco paused at this, and he almost missed the smirk on Shacklebolt's face as the Auror turned away.

"Besides. Madame Malkin isn't too fond of convicts in her shop."

Draco scowled and ignored him as he left again.

His father would tell him that a Malfoy did not hide. His father would stroll into Madame Malkin's with the Auror and mediwitch in tow, treating them like peons, all the while reassuring the Madame that her continued loyalty was greatly appreciated and, in time, this little misunderstanding would be resolved. Lucius would keep a stiff upper lip and face down all of his naysayers. He wouldn't approve of his only son meekly huddling in the corner of a shabby Ministry waiting room.

Yet Draco just couldn't. He was too weak.

He took hold of the wand gingerly, reluctantly tapping the lip of the cup. "Aguamenti." A trickle of water spurted out unsteadily.

He dumped the first cupful on the other side of the table. Who knew how long it had been sitting there, or who had touched it last. Even an added Scourgify did not completely satisfy him, and he drank with the air of someone expecting poison.

The door opened and the little medimouse scurried in.

The witch approached him hesitantly, wand loosely posed in her fingers. He found it just as irritating that when she wasn't quaking in trepidation, she was itching to poke her wand by his head.

Draco had never enjoyed hospitals; each visit that he could remember was filled with brisk and haughty mediwizrds clinically prodding his arms and chest while commenting to his father how small he was for his age.

Propping his chin on his palm, he stared at the cup and ignored her wand waving.

However paranoid the Aurors were, one just had to remember Mad Eye Moody, they were a tenacious lot.

He fingered the wand with distaste. Its well-polished surface still felt familiar and comforting no matter how many times he reminded himself it was not his wand.

Draco mused which spells might fall under mundane that he could use to his advantage.

There were ways to examine spells active and spells lingering in an area, one could evoke former incantations from a wand itself, and from what he could recall, there were diagnostic spells that would appraise the extent of outside magic in the wizard's body.

Does his imprisonment mean he had never finished school? He was worse than Marcus Flint.

Closing his eyes, he again wondered if it was a dream. One well-placed pinch had solved that mystery though. A trick?

Yet what could anyone hope to accomplish by fooling him so completely? Maybe to confess to a murder that he thought was ten years old.

An image of the Potions master's sallow face, always framed by greasy black hair, wearing a dour sneer came up suddenly.

His eyes opened.

"Who came up on charges for Dumbledore's death?" His voice was harsh and raw.

Holcomb fumbled briefly with her wand.

Draco had a sudden vision of snatching it from her fingers and pressing it against her throat, demanding answers. He would be in control then.

"I do not know. I was just starting Beauxbatons when it happened." She inched back from him slightly, as if sensing his thoughts.

Or perhaps it was the malevolent glare on his face. It could have been that.

"Every imbecile and twit would have heard the news, especially if they were in another magical school." His father's voice flowed through him effortlessly. The urge to seize the wand she was rapidly twisting in her fingers grew.

Her eyes were huge, breathing fast. "I had heard, but there were only rumors and half-formed ideas on the culprit. Please, not even your news reported much fact, Monsieur, I—"

He jerked over the table and swiped toward her hands, but his fingers only met air.

She backed up rapidly, babbling in rapid French and English.

He lunged again, missing her wand as she thrust it between his open arms.

It nearly brushed his forehead as she cried, "I'm sorry, Monsieur Malfoy! Stupefy!"

He didn't even see the red flash before blackness descended on him.

The scent of apples and cinnamon greeted him as he awoke. His head throbbed, everything was blurry, and he hoped he wasn't the one snivelling like a baby. Unsteadily, he lifted his head from a particularly lumpy pillow, the wash of colors swimming still.

Shacklebolt was sitting next to him, arms crossed over his barrel of a chest.

Behind him, Holcomb glanced nervously between him and the third figure in the room between blowing her nose.

If the two Gryffindors were easy to recognize, then Malcolm Baddock was even moreso.

Formerly a promising first year, a wily second year, and then a third year that had yet to be caught by a prefect during the weekly after-curfew patrols.

He had been a sly, handsome child, and he had grown into a stoic, handsome man.

Draco's gut twisted. He had just seen him less than a month ago, barely growing into his gangly figure and strange ambitions to be prefect.

Now he was sporting the deep red robe of an Auror.

Draco let out a brief chuckle that turned into a wince. Pain clanged around his head lazily, vision swimming.

Shacklebolt stuck his massive fingers against his eyelid and pushed, much to Draco's irritation.

"It's not enough that my Healer tries to knock the rest of my memories out, now you're sticking your dirty fingers in my eye?" His father's voice seemed to have abandoned him for a papery croak.

When the giant finger was removed, he could see Malcolm studying him with hooded eyes. It was like looking into the face of a stranger.

No, it _was_ the face of a stranger.

The world was a stranger, and his own life would be unfamiliar and surprising.

"I want to know what happened. What happened to my father and Professor Snape and why am I really being locked away?" He stared at Malcolm.

Malcolm watched him for several long moments. Slytherins respected power, but Draco had to appeal to him without any power, and without any knowledge. He could offer nothing but a possibly tarnished name and whatever possessions he might have left.

Malcolm turned to Shacklebolt. "How could you leave a Healer alone with him? It was pure luck that he hadn't grabbed her wand, murdered her, and escaped."

Shacklebolt wasn't impressed. "Everyone was under strict orders not to enter the room without supervision."

"Then you should have placed sensors on the door to alert you. The name Malfoy is still a power to be reckoned with, and people can still be persuaded to help one." Malcolm's gaze swept over the cowed Healer in contempt before shooting back to Shacklebolt.

Shacklebolt didn't so much as lift an eyebrow at the rebuke. "I suppose," he said very mildly, "that you would prefer the assignment?"

Malcolm shot the older Auror a wary glance, full of calculation. "I know that if the _Daily Prophet_ hears that we've let a high-profile Dark Wizard escape just after being convicted, we will never live it down. I'd prefer that we treat him like a dangerous individual, and not an errant student who was nicking goods from the kitchen."

Draco couldn't quite pinpoint if Malcolm was attempting to hinder or improve the situation. He suspected the former.

"And furthermore," the pomous git continued, "without any conclusive evidence of this _memory loss_ , I find its longevity doubtful at best. Even if it is genuine, he was a Death Eater at age sixteen. We can't afford to be lax, no matter his condition."

Shacklebolt nodded. "You're right. We've been reluctant to expend precious resources on what appears to be a queer case. Could you imagine what the _Daily Prophet_ would say if they found out only one Auror was minding the treacherous Draco Malfoy? In fact..." he stroked his chin, giving a faint, innocuous smile, "...who better than to guard him than an increasingly prominent and accomplished young Auror?"

Malcolm's lips tightened before smoothing into a bland smile. "Despite my recent good publicity, I'm afraid my past connection with the convict could easily be distorted by one scandal-greedy article."

"Nonsense." Shacklebolt smiled wider. "Nobody would place the blame on you if your former classmate, and fellow Slytherin, were to escape under your nose. In fact, I think this puts you in a unique situation to more fully understand our amnesiac schoolboy."

Malcolm opened his mouth to protest, but Shacklebolt cut him off. "Now, please send an owl back to the Department to let them know of your assignment change. I will await your return quite anxiously."

The younger man shut his mouth furiously, mouth working before he whirled on his heel, causing Draco to wonder dimly if Professor Snape and the Magical Law Enforcement employed the same tailor. He had always wanted his robes to billow like that.

Draco had watched the interaction silently. While internal strife between the Aurors might not reveal the information he was seeking, it could be valuable later.

Shacklebolt motioned to Holcomb, who only cringed slightly. "I must ask that you heed my orders better in the future. Auror Baddock is correct that you could have been killed long before we arrived. It was little more than chance that you managed to stun him; he won't be so slow-witted in the future."

Draco bristled at that.

Holcomb tentatively inched toward him, sweeping her wand above his forehead.

It took a great deal of self-control and reminders to himself that getting hit by Shacklebolt would be like getting bludgeoned with a medieval hammer. He had respect for the person with the most influence in any situation.

"When will someone answer my questions?" Draco demanded. "I would even settle for a few scandal-ridden articles about now. They may lie, but at least its information."

Holcomb's brown eyes filled his vision briefly as she ran her wand beside his head.

"If I were you, Monsieur Malfoy," she said primly, "I would be very careful to separate the lies from the truth."

And for the second time in this strange world, Draco didn't know what to say.


End file.
